Peaceful Illness
by Of Bloody Grey
Summary: The fur trade is alive but fragile in the far north where predators and prey still struggle to survive and flesh is still consumed. Kargo, a gritty fur trapper following in his father's footsteps, survives a murder attempt carried out by agents from zootopia intending the message of peace and equality for all. In the city of Zootopia, a predator illness is being grossly ignored.


Prologue

The smell of steel and snow mingled well together. He inhaled the scent lovingly as he shifted a light snow over the steel trap, making it as natural as it had been. The snow made the shallow dug out indetectable and he knew before long it would reap in a beaver, rabbit, or caribou. Nothing could resist sustenance in the bitter far north for long. Food was the language of desperation up here, not comfort. He exploited the pull of survival on his intended targets. The bait always called to the wary in time.

He had been at this for all his life, as his father before him and so on. Trapping was the way of life for wolverines this far up, where the southern born had little or no hold on the way of life. He knew killing was forbidden in the south. Flesh was forbidden. Fur was forbidden. But not in the far north, where the blood of the ancestors was old but flowing strong.

He would internally scoff at the southern way of life when he'd come across it's stories. Peace was nothing more than a fallacy to his northern brethren. Prey and predator alike knew it only in tales or stories carried from the south, and while it sounded nice, it was uneasy on their ears. Peace was costly, he knew. He father always said it. _Peace always has some price. Don't buy it._ He didn't know for sure what price it meant to hold, but he knew it was simply unnatural. He never cared to seek it out anyways, but he had heard of plenty stories.

"Helloooooo!" He shot his head up to see the lynx trotting at a respectable distance, the spear in her hand glistened red in the sunlight, the hare slung across her shoulder was only noticeable by the crimson stain alongside its flank. "How's it going Kargo?"

He knew the lynx for a number of years but neither interacted much except in small talk from a distance and that was how friendships usually went north among different predators. He knew her name to be Sela, that she lived in the pine forest and had kittens at home. Old, strong blood in them too, he knew, the lynx were a keen kind of hunter he deeply respected.

"It's going good, Sela." Kargo hollered back. He lumbered to his sled, erasing his tracks from the set with his bushy tail. He lifted the harness up and clicked the metal faster across his broad white spotted chest before he began to pull his sled onward to the next set. Sela had disappeared into the snow hills by then, but he could still smell the scent of hare's blood in the crisp air.

As he carried on to a frozen creek, he unfastened his harness and retrieved a hatchet from the sled. In the back among his traps and tools laid the carcass of a beaver and one of a mink. He normally did not target other predators, but he figured if they were foolish enough to slip into his traps they were worthy of culling. Mink meat tasted like it smelled, which to him wasn't too bad, but other predators disliked it. However, their pelts fetched a pretty penny, and he never complained when one was caught. They were a nimble and aggressive cousin, and he also respected them but any caught by his traps were fair game.

Using the butt end of the hatchet, he hammered a hole into the ice where two sticks were frozen in place. The ice was crusted in hard snow, but was no match for his strength. After a few strikes to the ice, bitter cold water pooled around and bit his toes. He reached his arms into the water and felt the heaviness of a catch. His heart fluttered with excitement as he heaved up. His chocolate eyes gleamed at the sight of sleek beaver fur glimmering in the morning sun. After compressing the trap springs and lodging the frozen body out, he cut off the beaver's crude tree bark vest and immediately rolled the body in the snow.

Chucking the body into the sled, he checked the vest's pockets for any loot. A small stone knife which he tossed down the watery hole was all the coat contained. Most beavers had these, and he figured they carried them for marking trees for boundaries. The stone was too weak to his standards to justify keeping.

After he reset his trap and stabilized it underwater, he carried on alongside the river, checking and resetting as he went. Another beaver, numerous muskrat… He watched a hare dash across his path, it's eyes reflecting terror at his enormous sight. If he had not had the luck he had today on his line, he'd have pursued that hare. Instead, he left it for another day. He preferred to trap anyways, it gave him a homey feeling each waking day in the harsh season. It reminded him of his stoic but loving father.

His cabin was toasty and smelled strong of his own musk and the meat of his trapped prey. As he hung the frozen carcasses of today from the ceiling, he began to skin out a thawed beaver from yesterday. His knife sliced easily into the flesh, revealing a dark red underneath. The layers of fat crinkled as he peeled the skin off muscle. The sound made his mouth water. Often, his meals were raw; flesh, organ and bone. He would devour every inch of a carcass. At times, when nights were long and his stores plentiful, he'd make an old family stew of beaver meat, aged caribou fetus and crawfish. His father was an excellent cook, but Kargo felt he never could make it quite right. He always blamed the fetus. He'd buy it from wolves in the spring and bury it underground until late summer, but he could never get the oxygen exposure just right for the sweet taste it was famous for.

His stores were low this winter, so he decided this beaver would be eaten raw. After he fleshed the pelt and boarded it, he sawed off the thighs, kept the liver and tossed the rest outside for the ermine to fight over. Sometimes he'd watch the amusing little cousins fuss over the left overs as he chomped into a thigh. They always stopped and listened when his teeth cracked into the bone.

He finished his meal at sundown and watched the ermine fight over what he left them. In the distance he could see the arctic fox lingering behind the treeline for a turn at the scraps. He left them to their own devices when he entered his cabin again to settle for a rest. Firstly, he checked his skins, wiping the grease from them and pulling off little bits of thickened membranes if they were present. Spring was coming, he knew. With spring came the auctions of his skins, where he'd travel to the nearest settlement to retrieve his pay. Where his skins went, he didn't know. The buyer probably did but he never cared to ask. The populated south had done away with skins for a long time, well before his birth and maybe even before his grandsire's time. Kargo's father said they went to those with money, or collectors or other far off regions in need of skins. He never thought too much on it though.

His pelts lined the ceiling in bunches. Beaver, mink, hare, caribou, lemming, and a couple wolves he'd come across frozen of starvation. At times he had even skinned his own kind, which he had come across starved or raiding his traps for meat in lean times. Kargo didn't tolerate thieves on his line. Wolverines were a respectable sort, but could be prone to gluttony. If one wasn't willing to trade and resorted to theft, Kargo had no time for them, nor did any other trapper making their living.

As Kargo readied for his rest, he brewed a bitter tea and listened to the fox's jaws crunching the beaver bones outside from his bed. It was relaxing, reminding him of his natural and holistic roots. The way his kind lived proper as his father would say. A wolverine was a great beast, and one must always guard the north.

As the fox's feast died down, he curled up in his bed, his breath fogging into the air but the tea inside his belly warmed him through the night. Kargo drifted off to sleep to the sound of wolves in the distance and the dreamy embrace of his traditions. When he'd wake in the morning, the trapline would provide again new resources to come.

The snow was sloppy, wet and the trees above were shedding their icles to shatter onto the mucky ground. The spring thaw was early, Kargo sensed. Too early. It was too early every year he assumed. His father even had similar complaints although his grandsire spoke of long gripped winters that died only after June. He himself had seen a few tough winters die the old way as they should, but it had been awhile since he saw one of those. He carried on, with his harness upon him, leading a heavy sled heaped with pelts so high he had to keep glancing back to make sure the ties had not allowed any to fall overboard.

Beaver and muskrat made the bulk of his catches this season. He had some mink, a couple otter and some caribou hides. All of which were to be traded in for payment and sent anywhere where others needed them.

The outpost ahead was bustling with life as other trappers made their business. A majority of them were wolverines, fisher, lynx and coyote, which was the usual species make up. But as he passed the wood gates he spied other kinds who were smaller but just as gritty as himself. A black furred mink carried a bundle of muskrat over her head and a raccoon pulled a sled of various skins. He even spied the equally as large boar gathering a number of his beaver skins to check their grade before turning them over to a buyer. It was not often he seen a boar a trapper but they were like predators if they chose to be. If they wanted meat, they'd get it.

Predators here were not social aside from the wolves. Kargo often only spoke at a distance as he passed them by but on this day, he allowed handshakes, greetings, winks and playful nudges from old friends. One sort was a female fisher by the name of Maina. He had known her since the two were kits. Their own fathers friends during the rendezvous. She was dark coated as himself but she was leaner, more nimble and a tad shorter. She and him always flocked together when the fur was to be sold.

"Any neat catches this season, Kargo?" She asked with a sharp grin.

"Ah," Kargo laughed, "I got just the thing, Maina." He sorted through his beaver skins until he produced a small round pelt of an unusually silvery coloured beaver. "I got this fella in a body grip just last month. He's small and unimpressive but you think the colour would be nice?"

"It's certainly unique! Hey, look I got an otter similar to that colour too, see?" She rummaged through her skins and brought out the skin, "Ain't the first time I caught one like that either. It's strange, but I always catch them in the same body of river. On the bend before the marshes. Every year I get one or two."

The boar passing by stopped and nodded, himself familiar with the silvery hides, "Oh I bet I know what that is, miss. Them's the Silva Clan otters. They're warriors. But none trappers, so you tend to catch them time to time if you use bodygrips in their waters. I used to trap the same area when I was a lad. I'm glad to see a lady putting it to good use."

Kargo had heard of the Silva otters, although he avoided those waters during the winter even though the muskrat numbers were rich. He was simply too heavy to trust the ice there, although Maina could manage easily. He knew stories of the grey furred otters who killed intruders during the summers, even other otters. Their hostility to new blood caused their fur to turn over many generations. Inbreeding his father called it, would make beautiful pelts and a furious mind in animals if done too long.

As he mingled with friends and buyers, he caught sight of a small group of outlandish animals dressed in heavy coats with the look of fear and disgust wrought across their faces. A rabbit, jaguar, and polar bear skulked about shaking their heads at the pelts and traps lined about. The rabbit held a curious device that flashed brightly when she clicked it. In the jaguar's paws were a bundle of pamphlets. Maina gave a quiet hiss under her breath before she muttered to him, "It's the southerners… once again trying to force their unnatural ways down our throats and film our pelts for some horror show no doubt."

Kargo knew the sight all too well and gave a low growl of annoyance. Every spring during the rendezvous a city far south known as a major influence on the world, would send up what they'd call agents to convert or convince predators in the far north to give up their savage ways. He father always warned him there was something wrong with their unnatural lifestyle and everyone beside him knew the same as well. Even the prey here was wary, as barely any would ever return south with the agents.

The rabbit flashed her device some more as she carried on through the rows of pelts. Trappers and buyers sighed and snarled at them, some telling them to leave to their cushy city and leave the real predators alone. As they neared Kargo and Maina, the jaguar laid a pamphlet on his sled of furs, yanking her paw away in disgust. Kargo have a grin, "What's the matter? Nature offensive to you?"

She snarled back loudly, the polar bear grabbing her shoulders to keep her back, "How dare you! You murder innocent beings! They are your equals!"

Before Kargo could reply, the rabbit chimed in "Prey are equals, not resources!"

Kargo glanced down to the little rabbit and huffed, "You come here every spring and make no progress. Why do you bother? The north is different -"

"Prey are equals! Not resources!" She yelled with the jaguar. Kargo gave a gentle laugh that put them quiet for the moment, "I'm sorry for the offense. I'm sorry your southern way of life is torn away from the real world. But here in the north, the is equality all around. Predator and prey alike are subject to natural selection. To starvation. To survival. It is how it always been. Your equality is a fallacy."

Maina chimed in, a wide toothy grin on her maw, "If your pelts were not so dingy from shit nutrition I'd be tanning your hides right now."

These agents from the south were always mouthy and had starry eyes full of intense but useless fury. They sang the same chants every year and Kargo often got a laugh out of the annoyance they brought. He figured they were lucky no one killed them for their foolery. Sure, he was a killer by natural design, but he was civil when he needed to be. Everyone here was.

The jaguar swiped her claws at Maina for her remark, nicking the fisher across the cheek. Maina touched a paw to it and pulled up a bloody pad. She licked it clean and smiled at the jaguar again, "and we're the savage ones?"

"You have the blood of millions upon your paws fisher!" The jaguar screeched. Maina shook her head and turned away with Kargo. He knew his friend was tough and true. The north wasn't for the soft angry animals who lied to their nature.

"You did good there, Maina. Better than I would have done."

"And what would you have done?"

Kargo shrugged his heavy shoulders, "I don't know, but I'm sick of the insufferable southerners every spring coming here shoving their ideologies down our throats."

Kargo sold his pelts to the buyer who graded them and sorted them according to grade. As usual, the buyer was impressed with the quality and detail he put into the care of his skins. However, the pay was low. A disappointing blow but he understood. The fur market was underground now, hanging by a thread from being busted. Demand was often high but when customers were wary, they'd hold out for another year.

He'd heard similar complaints from other trappers. An ermine had said he heard there was a huge sting in the south, where hundreds of marten and beaver pelts were taken and arrests were made. It happened from time to time, Kargo knew. He felt his traditions were also hanging by a thread just like the market. Which was what his father often spoke of, as the age goes on, the natural order gets harder to preserve.

Kargo spent a while sitting at one of the row tables with Maina enjoying a bowl of beaver stew, while conversing with various other beasts about adventures and hardship. At the most, the spring rendezvous was about the only socialization and friendship he got out of the whole year. As a wolverine, he was naturally solitary and not keen to small talk and smothering from visitors. Today, however, he made exceptions and always enjoyed the event despite the south's influence with the agents.

"I'll tell you what, Maina," an ermine began. His white fur speckled with grey as his coat was ready to turn, "I'll show how to dye your traps using walnuts next time you head my way. Rust them proper beforehand and it takes to the steel real even."

"It's hard to find them this far north." A boar popped in, "How've you been, Kargo? You don't talk much, ya know?"

The wolverine looked up to the scarred old hog and grinned, "Most of us wolverines don't. I've been good, not impressed with the pelt prices however…"

"Who is?" the boar laughed, "If your old man was still around he'd be mighty proud of you, I know. Cajou was a legend here. Smartest predator in the north."

Kargo agreed and gave a quiet nod, "Yes sir, but even the mightiest fall. Such as the way here. He was blessed to live into old age and go down doing what he loved the most." Kargo could remember the day as fresh as ever in his memory. His father on the ice, lugging out beaver as he had done for decades. He shifted his weight to compress the springs on the bodygrip and fell through the ice. Kargo was wary of ice ever since, but it didn't stop him for the persuit of fur.

"You're true there." The boar returned the nod, then looked around with a furrowed brow, "You smell that?"

"Yeah…" Maina sniffed the air, then noticed the smoke wafting through the windows and the bright tongues of orange dancing through the glass, "It's a fire!"

Kargo rushed up, the smoke quickly filling the hall with smothering heat and panic. The pelts surrounding every perimeter of the hall began to catch fire. He bent down to lower himself to keep the smoky haze from his vision, but it became so thick he couldn't see for too long. The many howls and screams of others flooded his ears, as well as the pounding of his own blood. Kargo bumbled around in a dark cloud, desperate for an entrance. He felt little bodies tumble and crawl across his feet, hacking and screaming for help. He couldn't find Maina, but he heard the screams of desperate fishers all around him.

"The door's been blocked!" He heard someone yell. Kargo instantly followed to their sound to seek out the door that he rammed his shoulder against. It was indeed blocked from the outside. He coughed, giving another ram, then another and another. The door was strong, built to handle the roughness of the biggest bear. He felt his lungs shrink and burn in his chest, and he began clawing and gnawing through the wood blindly. Desperate for air and escape, Kargo tried to use every scrap of his body to tear through that door. Whoever was beside him was doing the same as well.

As he spat out a mouthful of splinters, he tasted blood. His claws cracked against the wood. The animal beside him had fallen into a fit of coughs onto the floor. He kept chewing through the wood, knowing he had not made much progress. But he knew desperation was a force that made one not care for the odds. He was familiar with it. As he gnawed and tasted a mouthful of his own blood, his senses swirled and he began to feel faint and exhausted.

A loud crash raged above him, and a cold explosion flooded his lungs with fresh air for a moment. Kargo opened his eyes and scrambled to stand, charging his way outside into the snow. The boar ahead of him had his snout split wide open from the sharp iron fixtures that held the door together. Gasping animals fled through the doors, tumbling over each other as they inhaled cold life.

Kargo gathered his wits about himself and saw the flames swallowing the building whole, the timber wailing from the hell devouring it. He glanced about the scurrying animals, trying to count heads and familiar faces. He saw the boar stripping fabric off his tunic to stop the bleeding of his snout and the little ermine who had spoken of walnut dyes. However, Kargo could not find Maina anywhere. The flames roared and the building screeched, and Kargo barged back into the fire.

He pawed blindly around, yelling for her. He felt warm bodies beneath his feet, but he could not tell who was who or if any were alive or not. "Maina!" He bellowed through a throat that felt dry and filled with broken glass. "Maina! Where are you?"

In the very back, he heard her hoarse whimper. She was curled up in a corner, sucking in deep breaths with her eyes rolled back into her head. Kargo could smell the scorched fur and flesh upon her as he scooped her up. He turned, dodging a falling timber and plowing through bodies.

When Kargo found his way back out, he fell to his knees in the snow, dropping Maina and rolling her around in the snow as if she was a fresh catch from the river. She was limp, her body hot and burned but her chest heaved rapidly. Kargo got on fours and scruffed her to carry her away from the crumbling building. The boar met up with Kargo and took a more gentle hold of Maina, "She's still alive…"

Kargo rose, nodding, "Most are dead in there. She's taken too much smoke."

"Aye, but she'll live." The boar shook his head as he looked down to the mass of flames, "They burned us down. They wanted to kill us all."

Kargo applied snow to Maina's wounds and propped her head on a little pillow of snow he piled up. "They've never done anything of this matter before. Why now?"

"They're furious at our way of life, enough so now they took it in their own hands."

As the sun set and animals scattered off to make a hasty retreat home, Kargo felt too sick to carry on. His arms felt like jelly to even a fisher's light weight. He gently laid her down on the snow before his muscles buckled down. The smell of charred flesh from the building was heavy in the air, looming through the arctic night. He knew opportunistic predators would be skulking about by now, as well as any looters of any kind. Even wolverines as himself would be feasting upon the burned. It was just the natural order of things.

Maina's flank and cheek were burned to the meat. Kargo could see the flesh glisten against moonlight. He laid down behind her, curling up to lick her wounds. He wasn't a creature much for caring but he had his morals when necessary. Maina whimpered but shifted her head up to look around, "Kargo?"

"Yes?"

"They did it. They tried to kill us."

He briefly returned to licking her wounds, "I know. They killed most of us. I went back to get you."

"Where are the agents?"

Kargo had not thought on them in the panic, he knew they had high tailed it well before anyone noticed the first flames. "They're gone, back to where they dwell…"

Maina coughed, flashing her teeth, "It's a long run from here to the nearest village able to transport them. You know what you need to do, Kargo."


End file.
